NORTH

But all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.

[seek-no-longer]

A funeral

The others will comb the sea, transgress the sky, plunder the earth. They will find each mote of Candles. He is a wound, an absence, a decay, but they will assemble his elements for the ceremony.

They shape his catafalque of cinder and devilbone. They set it to orbit and idle Judgement, one that is almost sympathetic. The greater Judgements are not informed. The celebrants are the smaller powers of the Chain: vane-merchants, vagabonds, radiants, axiles, the liberant pariahs and the corsairs of the Curve. They look upon the remnants of the Runt; they grieve; they will not forget.

There is very little left of you by then. His un-siblings take you up, up, and shape the last flickers of you. They set you at the head of the catafalque, to be a light and a memorial. The emanations of the High Wilderness bathe and dessicate you. You stiffen and do not move: but you illuminate. Eternal, indivisible, sessile as oak and dripstone. You are a candle.

You have completed the search for Mr Eaten’s Name, asking the Question. There is nothing to be restored. You have planted a seed in bleak and urgent soil. But this character is finished, forever.

“These are my children and this is my light. These are my words in the merciful night. This is the Sun whose commands run below, and the Feast of it all is the way we must go. The One who denied is love’s enemy but the enemy, love, is the last we shall see.”

[seek-no-longer]

You will be honoured

The myrmidons of the Law bring you before the thrones of Gold, the White, the Red. Stars wheel about you. The void roars. A thousand thousand cores of light whelm you, sear you, expose you. You render your evidence. The courier is found instantly guilty.

The Judgements have no armies. They do not require armies. In the far heavens, where light curdles and harmony is enforced and silence is unbroken, they silently agree and express their Will. Their Will comes, at least, to Earth, to the Neath, as a storm crosses the sea. In time, when the Sequence is enacted, when the agonies are subdued, when the fabrics of the place resolve to something like matter once more, when the tears dry and the screams have nearly ceased, you will miss London.

You?

You are a trophy; a memento; a flambeaux. You accorded the high honour of remaining discrete. Your soul, and its shadow, are absorbed into no star. You are pinned to a high place, to illuminate the vestibule of the antechamber of the Court. There you remain. There you will always remain. High, cold, eternal, immobile, minuscule. You endure; you burn.

You have completed the search for Mr Eaten’s Name. You have brought down the inevitability of Judgements on the Neath. The treachery of the Bazaar and Masters will be punished. The Courier will be subjected to the agonies that only the highest Law may require. The Neath will return forever to stone and silence. Mr Eaten is avenged, avenged, avenged. But this character is finished, forever.

[seek-no-longer]

TRAVELLER RETURNING

Across that sea which is no longer night. Extend your limbs to feel the warmth of the sun. Across the harbour, bright with aluminium and intricate with masts. White walls, red brick. A familiar window. A wide room of bronze (violet-glinting). And here you are.

Stretch your limbs. Creak your neck. The mirror shows you you. A miniature monster rattles its dark carapace in a silver cage. Expensive machines glitter on your desk: you can disregard them. The phone rings: it can wait. Rise from your chair. You are still you, and you will be here, in this little port of sun and intrigue and eternity, for the longest time you can manage.

You failed, you succeeded. This was only the first element. It is a terrible pity about the Runt. If you could have saved him, you would. But all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. Contact the others. Let them know what the White intended. Continue.

You have completed the search for Mr Eaten’s Name. What you have done with that Name is nothing anyone ever expected. But this character is finished, forever.

“Yes, very likely you are right. Very likely, its hopes are meaningless. But even the Judgements, now and then, have encountered something unsuspected. We all choose what we take, and what we leave behind.”

[seek-no-longer]

[seek-no-longer]

A funeral

The others will comb the sea, transgress the sky, plunder the earth. They will find each mote of Candles. He is a wound, an absence, a decay, but they will assemble his elements for the ceremony.

They shape his catafalque of cinder and devilbone. They set it to orbit and idle Judgement, one that is almost sympathetic. The greater Judgements are not informed. The celebrants are the smaller powers of the Chain: vane-merchants, vagabonds, radiants, axiles, the liberant pariahs and the corsairs of the Curve. They look upon the remnants of the Runt; they grieve; they will not forget.

There is very little left of you by then. His un-siblings take you up, up, and shape the last flickers of you. They set you at the head of the catafalque, to be a light and a memorial. The emanations of the High Wilderness bathe and dessicate you. You stiffen and do not move: but you illuminate. Eternal, indivisible, sessile as oak and dripstone. You are a candle.

You have completed the search for Mr Eaten’s Name, asking the Question. There is nothing to be restored. You have planted a seed in bleak and urgent soil. But this character is finished, forever.

“These are my children and this is my light. These are my words in the merciful night. This is the Sun whose commands run below, and the Feast of it all is the way we must go. The One who denied is love’s enemy but the enemy, love, is the last we shall see.”

[seek-no-longer]

You will be honoured

The myrmidons of the Law bring you before the thrones of Gold, the White, the Red. Stars wheel about you. The void roars. A thousand thousand cores of light whelm you, sear you, expose you. You render your evidence. The courier is found instantly guilty.

The Judgements have no armies. They do not require armies. In the far heavens, where light curdles and harmony is enforced and silence is unbroken, they silently agree and express their Will. Their Will comes, at least, to Earth, to the Neath, as a storm crosses the sea. In time, when the Sequence is enacted, when the agonies are subdued, when the fabrics of the place resolve to something like matter once more, when the tears dry and the screams have nearly ceased, you will miss London.

You?

You are a trophy; a memento; a flambeaux. You accorded the high honour of remaining discrete. Your soul, and its shadow, are absorbed into no star. You are pinned to a high place, to illuminate the vestibule of the antechamber of the Court. There you remain. There you will always remain. High, cold, eternal, immobile, minuscule. You endure; you burn.

You have completed the search for Mr Eaten’s Name. You have brought down the inevitability of Judgements on the Neath. The treachery of the Bazaar and Masters will be punished. The Courier will be subjected to the agonies that only the highest Law may require. The Neath will return forever to stone and silence. Mr Eaten is avenged, avenged, avenged. But this character is finished, forever.

[seek-no-longer]

TRAVELLER RETURNING

Across that sea which is no longer night. Extend your limbs to feel the warmth of the sun. Across the harbour, bright with aluminium and intricate with masts. White walls, red brick. A familiar window. A wide room of bronze (violet-glinting). And here you are.

Stretch your limbs. Creak your neck. The mirror shows you you. A miniature monster rattles its dark carapace in a silver cage. Expensive machines glitter on your desk: you can disregard them. The phone rings: it can wait. Rise from your chair. You are still you, and you will be here, in this little port of sun and intrigue and eternity, for the longest time you can manage.

You failed, you succeeded. This was only the first element. It is a terrible pity about the Runt. If you could have saved him, you would. But all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. Contact the others. Let them know what the White intended. Continue.

You have completed the search for Mr Eaten’s Name. What you have done with that Name is nothing anyone ever expected. But this character is finished, forever.

“Yes, very likely you are right. Very likely, its hopes are meaningless. But even the Judgements, now and then, have encountered something unsuspected. We all choose what we take, and what we leave behind.”